


thank you for breathing

by clio



Category: EXO (Band), Winner (Band)
Genre: Brothers!Mino/Minseok, M/M, MAMA/Pathcode!au, Other, Past Character Death, Winderland 2015, Winner/Exo Crossover, side!xiuhan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio/pseuds/clio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mino finds that bravery has nothing to do with super powers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank you for breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [Winderland 2015](http://win-derland.livejournal.com/3202.html). You don't need to know anything about exo to read this story, and I do hope you come with an open mind! :) It's such an honor to be a part of the first Winderland fic fest, and thank you mods for all your hard work in bringing the inner circle some festive cheer! To the person who prompted this, thank you for your great prompt, and I really really hope you like this. To my wonderful, most helpful, most incredible beta, R, for never letting me be lazy and for telling it to me straight when this got too Frozen-like, you are the wind beneath my wings.

Mino presses the butt of his latest cigarette into the already brimming ashtray.  
  
All around him, men in tailored business suits and women with red lipstick speak in low voices, trading hidden smiles and small touches while smoke curls into the stale air. In the front of the room there’s a small stage with a sleek black piano, and a middle-aged man plays the saxophone, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face under the heat of the audience’s gaze and the strong lights.  
  
It’s a fancy place, not like his usual haunts.  
  
“Would you like another, sir?” A young server pauses at his table, straight white teeth and bouncy hair shining in the ambient light of the bar. Mino glances at his drink, mostly water now and its glass leaving rings on the tabletop. He nods his head and she takes his drink away with a smile.  
  
The saxophone player finishes his set, wiping down his face and neck with a handkerchief produced from his pocket, and Mino joins the rest of the bar’s occupants in polite applause. Friday evenings at  _Pathcode Jazz and Piano Bar_  are reserved for their most popular vocalists and performers, and Mino had arrived early to make sure he had a prime seat for the headliner.  
  
“Here you are, sir,” the server returns with his drink and he smiles his thanks as she sets it down in front of him. A new performer takes the stage, a woman gracefully seating herself at the piano.  
  
Sitting back in his seat, Mino lights up a new cigarette and waits.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Another hour passes and  _Pathcode_  becomes even more crowded, the buzz of anticipation blossoming in the air, strumming through the patrons and mixing in with their drinks until the energy of the room bursts when the house lights dim and a slender, attractive man in a smart suit steps on stage. Mino sits up straight in his chair, senses on high alert as anticipation ripples through him. He’s no fan of jazz music, has no real business being in an establishment like  _Pathcode_ , and yet his heart is slamming against his chest as he watches the man smile at the audience, taking the time to let his eyes linger over the faces of strangers while he adjusts the height of the mic stand.  
  
“Good evening and thank you for coming out to  _Pathcode_. My name is Luhan,” and several people—regulars probably—clap and cheer, earning a brilliant smile from Luhan, who brings a hand up to shield his eyes, pretending to look for his admirers.  
  
The sleeve of his jacket rides up slightly, and that’s when Mino sees it. A mark—a scar—on the inside of his wrist. A hexagon.  
  
“I hope you all enjoy this first song, it’s an old favorite of mine…”

 

 

 

 

 

  
Mino can’t tell if Luhan is as brilliant a singer as many have claimed, but he finds himself enthralled nonetheless. He taps his foot to the beat of the song, sways slightly to the sound of Luhan’s crooning voice. It isn’t until Luhan is breathless and smiling and saying that this next song will be his last, that Mino stands, sturdy on his feet, and pays for his tab.  
  
He weaves his way through the crowd and slips out the back.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Luhan takes a long drink from a water bottle, sighing as he steps into the small dressing room at the back of  _Pathcode_. He’s happy, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him feel drunk and alive in a way few things now are able to. Dropping into the worn chair against the vanity, he eyes a towel sitting on a far shelf, and in the next moment it is in flight, hovering over space as it moves—seemingly of its own accord—from its position on the shelf and into Luhan’s waiting hand.  
  
He peels off his jacket and sends it flying through the air to hang neatly on the hanger against the wall and towels off his hair, humming softly to himself.  
  
When he looks up into the mirror, his blood runs cold.  
  
“Hi,” Mino grins and gives a small wave from where he’s standing in the shadows of the room.  
  
To Luhan’s credit, he recovers quickly, settling back into his chair and crossing his legs, but his eyes never leave Mino’s as they stare at each other through the mirror. “How long have you been lurking in dark places?” Luhan smirks, a subtle edge to his voice.  
  
“Too long,” Mino tosses back, taking a small step forward and into the circle of light. “Nice show. You’ve got a great voice.”  
  
Luhan accepts the compliment with a gracious nod of his head. “Thank you,” he says before finally turning around in his seat and facing Mino. “But I can see you’re not here to talk about music, and you just witnessed me using my powers without so much as batting an eyelash, so why don’t you tell me what you want.”  
  
Slowly, Mino reaches into his pocket to produce his badge. “My name is Mino, I’m with the WWIC. I want to talk to you about your involvement in the mutant war. I have a few questions—”  
  
“I have nothing to say about the war,” Luhan cuts in, dismissively. “I’ve already told you guys everything I know. It’s all on file. So sorry, but—”  
  
Mino takes a hasty step forward, and Luhan’s fingers twitch, the room instantly charging with energy and the barely restrained force of his powers. The two of them stand off, and Mino knows he’s no match for a veteran fighter of Luhan’s caliber. He’s not some young teen, reckless and just coming into his powers, but a powerful telekinetic who’s survived the brutality of the war against mutants. Still, powerless as he is, Mino isn’t leaving until he gets what he came for.  
  
“I know you were involved with the rogue organization EXO,” Mino throws out, eyes narrowed. “I want to talk to you about Minseok, codename: Xiumin.”  
  
This time, Luhan doesn’t recover quite as fast, the edges of his smile dropping off and Mino can see a look of haunting pain briefly flash across the older man’s delicate features. He stands, slowly, and the tension in the room drops, dissipating into the far corners of the bar, and Mino finds himself exhaling, no longer feeling weight against his chest, pressure against his throat.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luhan states with a shrug, his polite smile slipping back into place. “You must have me mixed up with someone else.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Mino spits. “I  _know_  the agency was never able to pin you to EXO, but I’ve seen the mark on your wrist. I know what it means. And I know who you are,  _little deer_.”  
  
Luhan looks almost impressed. His smirk grows softer at the edges but he still flicks his wrist, opening the door with nothing but his mind. “Sorry, but I really have no clue what you’re talking about. I really can’t help you. Now, if we’re all done here…”  
  
And it all seems so final, so unsatisfying, with the way Luhan is gesturing for Mino to take his leave, not caring that it’s taken Mino years to uncover what he knows about EXO—an organization whose existence was wiped from official records and so deeply buried that it took Mino ten years of his life just to be able to stand in this room, in front of the man they now call Luhan, senior official of EXO who formerly went by the codename  _Xiao Lu_.  
  
Instead of walking through the door, Mino slams it close, drawing a raised brow from Luhan. “No, we’re not done,” he says and decides to throw caution to the wind and change his tactic. “Because I’m not here as an agent. I don’t care about EXO’s secrets.”  
  
Mino reaches into his coat pocket and takes out an old photograph from his wallet. He tosses to Luhan, who stops it in mid-flight and studies it as it hangs in the air. In it, there are two boys, the older one wrapping an arm around a boy of 13 or 14 maybe, with joyful, gummy smiles on their open faces.  
  
Gravely, Mino speaks words he hasn’t said aloud in years. “Minseok is—was—my brother,” he says, his watchful eyes taking in the way Luhan reaches out, finger tracing over the image of the young Minseok. When Luhan’s eyes finally find his, they have that same haunted look about them as before, only this time they shine with something like sympathy. Something like guilt.  
  
“As I said, I have some questions for you, little deer.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Mino had been fifteen when Minseok died.  
  
He remembers sitting in math class, tuning out the teacher and doodling in the margins of his notebook, counting down the minutes to lunch, when the door of the classroom had opened and a gust of wind ruffled the pages of his textbook.  
  
He coughed.  
  
It was the principal of the school, a small stern looking woman with severe features, and despite the fact that Mino saw her nearly everyday, could not recall ever seeing her inside a classroom. As his mind took note of the oddity of the situation, she stepped into the room and all the students sat up straighter, even his teacher growing meek and stiff under the tense and oppressive atmosphere.  
  
They whispered softly to each other and the kids grew weary and afraid, guilt and shame—for crimes committed, both innocent and less so—stealing their breath and making their hearts quicken in their chests. But it wasn’t until the principal and his teacher turned toward the direction of his desk, their gazes falling upon him, that the hair on the back of Mino’s neck stood up.  
  
Mouth suddenly dry, he watched in a kind of daze as the principal approached him and asked him to gather his things. Dread filled his body, and he sat dumbfounded and frightened, eyes pleading with his teacher to come and save him, but all she could do was pack Mino’s belongings and gently push him to go with the principal.  
  
Mino felt like he was underwater, sounds and sight distorted—blurry and unfamiliar—and every step was heavy and full of effort. It was a strange feeling, but not necessarily bad. Not like the attacks he had when he tried to run and couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. No, it wasn’t anything like that.  
  
When he thinks back on it, he doesn’t remember the drive home, doesn’t remember entering his home or who exactly told him. He just remembers the disconnect, the separation from himself as if he were watching another boy come home to find his mother wailing and clutching at her hair, his father with his head in his hands on the couch.  
  
Maybe no one had said anything to him. Not that they needed to. Mino had already known that Minseok was dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
They end up at a local diner, sliding into a plastic booth in the corner. Mino orders coffee and pie while Luhan settles for tea. They lapse into silence, none of the bravado that characterized Luhan’s behavior toward Mino remain, replaced entirely by the quiet and solemn demeanor of a man too lost in memories of the past.  
  
“So, what do you want to know?”  
  
“ _Everything_ —were you with him, when he died?” Mino blurts and his older brother’s former lover gasps, eyes widening.  
  
Immediately, Mino feels regret. As eager as he is to finally find out what happened to his brother, this is personal and he recognizes that he’s asking Luhan to willingly confront ghosts from a previous life. Mino thinks he should have more tact, but so many years as an agent has taught him to be abrasive and direct in his line of questioning. He has to remind himself that this isn’t an interrogation. Tonight, things are personal.  
  
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have just spoken out like that,” Mino apologizes meekly.  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Luhan waves off, sipping his tea and clearing his throat. “What do you know exactly—about Minseok’s death?”  
  
Mino doesn’t miss how Luhan stumbles over Minseok’s name, as if he hasn’t formed those syllables in a long time. Nor does he miss the slight reverence in Luhan’s voice as he speaks them.  
  
And suddenly, Mino feels a rush of emotion pulse through him, not just because he’s finally going to get answers to the mystery of his brother’s death, but because for the first time in nearly a decade, he gets to talk about Minseok openly and freely with someone who cares about him—instead of being reprimanded and scolded by his parents whenever he so much as mentioned his brother, resulting in speaking about Minseok in whispers like some dirty family secret.  
  
But Minseok, even in death, deserves so much better than that.  
  
He knows that—officially—Minseok’s death was listed as an accident. An unfortunate casualty of the war against humans and mutants over a decade earlier. His involvement in the uprising was buried and wiped out, in large part due to his father’s wealth, standing, and influence. In official records, Minseok remains the son of a prominent community leader who had the terrible and tragic luck of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.  
  
Mino, of course, knows better.  
  
He remembers the last time he saw Minseok. It was a year before his death, and Mino was only fourteen years old. He had been awoken in the middle of the night, his window creaking as Minseok slipped in under the cover of darkness. Mino had been scared at the time, frozen in fear and his heart beating wildly in his chest—so sure he was going to die because every day on the news there were reports of people and mutants dying in a war he didn’t understand.  
  
“Shh, Mino, it’s just me,” Minseok whispered when Mino gave a tiny squeak.  
  
“M-Minseok?” Mino breathed, reaching for his lamp.  
  
“No, wait!” Minseok jumped. “Keep it off. So no one will know I’m here.”  
  
Mino didn’t like it, but his hands fell into his lap. “Is everything okay?” It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Mino swears Minseok smiled.  
  
“Of course. I just missed you and wanted to see you is all, and I don’t want to wake anyone else up,” he had said then, before Mino made room on his bed and Minseok slid in, sighing when his head touched the pillow. “How’ve you been? How’s school? The lungs?”  
  
“School’s okay, and they gave me a new inhaler,” Mino shrugged, biting his lip before taking a deep breath. “Mom and dad have been fighting a lot.”  
  
Minseok scoffed. “They’re always fighting. Just never for the right causes.”  
  
“Hey, hyung?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Why did you drop out of college?” Mino played with his shirt, somehow feeling foolish in his cartoon pajamas in front of his big brother. He knows he too old for these now, but he still can’t bring himself to put them aside. “Why don’t you just come home?”  
  
Minseok hummed. “I can’t right now, Mino. I’m doing something very important. Something I believe in. But I’ll come straight home after I’m all done,” he said. “I promise.”  
  
But Mino hadn’t been satisfied. “I’m scared, hyung,” Mino whispered, gripping the hem of his shirt. “I know a lot of people are dying and getting hurt because of the war…”  
  
In the next moment, Mino found himself dragged down and crushed in the embrace of his brother. “I’m not doing anything dangerous, Mino. I’m working with some people, and we’re just trying to make a difference. No matter what others tell you, we don’t  _want_  to fight. We don’t  _want_  this war. We just want to be equal. To not be afraid anymore. Just because we have powers doesn’t mean we’re not people too.”  
  
And there had been something so broken in the way that Minseok spoke, it made Mino’s eyes sting. For him, Minseok wasn’t just his brother and best friend; he was also his idol, role model, and the coolest, most capable person in his life. Although there was a five-year gap between them, Minseok wasn’t dismissive of him the way that their parents were. Didn’t treat him like an invalid. Minseok always made time for him, always listened, was always interested in his life.  
  
Hearing his brother’s weariness, his brother who was never afraid and was so, so strong, made Mino feel more helpless than he ever. He wanted to be bigger than he was, braver, stronger, smarter—anything—so that he could do something useful. Be helpful to Minseok for a change.  
  
Instead, he was just a sick kid without any powers to speak of, helplessly clinging to his older brother.  
  
“Hey, Mino?”  
  
“Yeah, hyung?” Mino thought Minseok had fallen asleep ages ago, while he had stayed awake, listening for Minseok’s breath.  
  
“I’m sorry I’m not around much,” he whispered. “I’m very sorry about that.”  
  
Even though he knew that Minseok couldn’t see him, Mino still shrugged. “It’s okay. We’ll have lots of time together when the war ends.”  
  
“Right…when the war ends.” At the time, Mino hadn’t been able to tell why Minseok had sounded so far away. Not that he had very much time to dwell on it, because he felt Minseok grope around for his hand, squeezing it tightly.

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, when Mino woke up, Minseok was gone, his window cracked open, the kitchen pantry raided, and Mino’s sheets caked with blood where Minseok had slept.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
“I was with him—at the end,” Luhan says once Mino finishes telling him what he knows about Minseok’s death. “He had been captured during one of our missions abroad. He was collared and beaten for what he could tell the WWIC.”  
  
Mino nods slowly, having expected as much, but hoping that it hadn’t happened to his brother. He had heard about the collars the agency had developed to disable mutant powers and used during the war. He clenches his fist, imagining the worst, his mind running through all the torture his brother might have suffered in the name of equality.  
  
“Eventually, we got to him. Rescued him.” Luhan looks so far away, now much more weary and heartbreakingly sad than he had been just an hour ago. “But it was too late. I—we—” he breaks off, voice catching and words clogging his throat.  
  
“He was so broken,” Luhan whispers shakily, anguish clearly marked on his features. “We couldn’t fix him. Save him. But…he was with people who cared about him. He went—peacefully. We even managed to bring him outside and into the snow to make him comfortable.”  
  
“Did he—” And Mino finds his own voice thick. “Did he say anything?”  
  
Luhan’s smile is broken, the sorrow in his glossy eyes familiar. “Not much. Just that he was sorry. He couldn’t really…at that point.”  
  
Mino nods in understanding, but it does nothing for the ache in his chest. He feels like the world is crumbling down upon him—again—leaving him desperate to fight for air and life and something to hold onto. Gripping the edge of the table, he asks, “And the body?”  
  
“Burned. But with respect and honor. It was customary that we not leave bodies behind. Just in case,” Luhan explains, each word seemingly heavier than the last. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Mino thinks about Minseok’s empty grave on their family plot. He’s never visited, because he knew there was nothing of Minseok there in the land of the dead. “I figured as much,” Mino exhales deeply.  
  
They sit there for a while, together and yet years apart, sharing their grief and swapping stories over more cups of coffee and tea.  
  
“I thought this day might come,” Luhan says eventually, eyes taking in Mino’s features. “He talked about you a lot. It was easy to see how much he adored you…and how much he regretted leaving you.”  
  
Mino bites his lips. There’s nothing really to say to that, because war is cruel and destructive and it never leaves behind winners, only regrets and brokenness. “Thank you, for telling me all this,” he says instead. “And for being with him.”  
  
But Luhan just shakes his head, staring out the window. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he says softly, before pointing outside.  
  
“Look,” he smiles. “It’s snowing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Mino remembers when he first learned of Minseok’s powers.  
  
He had been a child then, and miserable, as the summer heat dragged on and on. He couldn’t go outside to jump into the lake like the other kids because there were too many allergens in the air, and he was afraid. Instead, he perched on his bed with his fan blowing directly at him, fingers sticky from too many popsicles. Minseok had been passing by his room, and saw him whining about the heat and his stupid lungs.  
  
Taking pity on him, Minseok stepped into his room and closed the door behind him, asking Mino if he could keep a secret.  
  
If there was one thing Mino loved, it was a secret. He liked knowing things he wasn’t supposed to know, holding secret knowledge. And if his cooler older brother—the keeper of wonderous knowledge that Mino didn’t could even begin to understand—wanted to entrust him with a secret, there was no chance he was going to turn it down.  
  
Only, he hadn’t expected that Minseok would open his hand and gather ice crystals in his palm, creating small snowflakes. Mino shivered—not out of surprise but because his room was now considerably colder, a welcomed relief to the season’s humidity and heat.  
  
“Are you scared?” Minseok asked him, eyes taking in his every move.  
  
Mino shook his head. He wasn’t afraid at all. He was mostly awed. And envious. He fervently wished for powers, and it didn’t so much matter to him what they were. All Mino wanted was to be strong and healthy enough to play outside and battle the bad guys, instead of being stuck indoors, sick and afraid of everything.  
  
For years after he had waited for his own powers to manifest. He had trailed after his big brother, asking questions about when Minseok first started to display his power, what did it feel like, and whether or not Mino would have the same ice-bending power. When yet another year had passed and Mino remained woefully normal—still human, still sick—he would lock himself in his room for a week, only coming out when Minseok made his room so unbearably cold that it forced him out, and then Minseok would grab his hand and give him a mug of hot chocolate.  
  
When Mino found out that Minseok had dropped out of university and joined the mutant uprising, he wished for powers even more.

 

 

 

 

 

  
After Minseok died, Mino began to distance himself from his mother and father. Not that it mattered too much, since his mother quickly developed a strong preference for alcohol over the company of others—over her only remaining son. Whether it was out of guilt, shame, or relief, Mino didn’t know, nor did he care. His father, on the other hand, remained as ambitious as ever, quickly hushing up Minseok’s rumored involvement in the squashed rebellion and crafting a sad and tragic narrative of misfortune.  
  
The dead can’t argue their legacies, but Mino had tried.  
  
When his father had used Minseok’s death as leverage to gain sympathy votes from the community, painted Minseok as a  _supporter_  of the government crack down on mutants and their use of powers, and made him a poster child for the dangers posed to humans because of the mutants, Mino had never known so much anger.  
  
His brother had been a rogue, an orchestrator of the rebellion, an advocate of equality. But most of all, he had been a mutant.  
  
And it was disgusting to Mino that their own father would dishonor Minseok so terribly in death.  
  
He was angry. Mino had spent years confused about Minseok’s death. There was no outlet for his anger and sorrow, and Mino was inconsolable. He blamed his parents for disowning Minseok when they discovered his involvement in the uprising. He hated to see how quickly people forgot about the war—conveniently went on with their lives as if the government hadn’t issued the most severe laws against mutants and their use of powers—and blissfully carried on with their jobs and families because that mutant  _problem_  had been successfully dealt with.  
  
He even blames himself, for not being able to do more, for not going with Minseok when he had the chance. For being afraid. For being sick. Mino knows, logically, that he had been nothing but a child then, helpless and without powers, and there was very little he could have done to change Minseok’s fate. But he still lets his mind consider the possibility that he might have been able to save his brother—if only he had been brave enough.  
  
Mino was angry, and full of misplaced rage, because his only brother who was more family to him than his own parents, had been cruelly taken away from him far too soon, and nothing could make this right again.  
  
So he fought. With the kids in his classes, his neighbors, his own father. They had fought, brutally, with words and then fists—his mother not bothering to do anything to stop them and instead turning towards her liquor cabinet—until Mino had packed a suitcase and walked out, never looking back.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Mino had worked odd jobs to put himself through university, keeping his head down and silently making his way through the world. He was still angry, but now he channeled that energy and directed it to give his life a purpose. He might have failed Minseok in life, but he would avenge him in death.  
  
After he had graduated, he applied for the WWIC.  
  
The first day at the agency, Mino almost vomited, needing to use his inhaler twice that day. Because this was the organization that had been primarily responsible for suppressing the mutant rebellion—and if Mino’s hunch was correct, the very agency that killed his brother.  
  
And yet there he was, rubbing elbows and trading small talk at the water cooler on Monday mornings with these people whom he hated to the core of his being. But if there was one reason to join the agency, of putting up with his superiors who often recounted their glory days of taking down the mutants in the war, and smiling at their faces when he’d much rather be smiling at their faces down the barrel of his gun—it was access.  
  
The WWIC gave him access to information he could never hope to get his hands on from the outside. The more he dug, the deeper his investigations went, the more he grew disgusted with the agency and the web of lies. It had been a slow process to begin to unravel the truth. Even stumbling upon the name  _EXO_  was a matter of luck. The hexagon was a lucky find, but a great one, and it lead him to truths he never thought possible. Even then, it had taken him almost two years before he caught his next break and literally ran into a mutant who had appeared in front of him, out of thin air, one night as he was walking to his car—dejected and frustrated because another one of his leads had turned cold.  
  
The mutant had given him an uneasy smile, eyes sliding as if ready to make a run for it, when Mino had spotted the mark on his wrist—one he remembered seeing only once before, a long time ago.  
  
It was a hexagon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Luhan hums thoughtfully. “You’re clever. Just like Minseok said.”  
  
“Not so clever. Just lucky, I suppose,” Mino shrugs as he watches the city become covered in a dusting of snow. “It took a long time, but I knew I had to find you. I needed to find out what had happened to him. There were so many lies… I needed to know the truth. I wanted to honor who he was in life.”  
  
“Now that you have your truth, what will you do with it?” Luhan asks, his face once again a careful mask.  
  
“I’m not sure exactly, but it will have to start with righting the past and the memory of my brother. Putting the truth out there,” Mino states boldly, and Luhan smiles softly at this display of youthful naiveté.  
  
“You’ll be leaving him open to scorn and ridicule. Hatred even,” Luhan tilts his head. “Do you really want to open Minseok up to that?”  
  
Mino gives him a small smile. “I think he would have wanted it that way.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
“I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under happier circumstances,” Luhan says. He’s standing on the sidewalk, scarf wrapped around his face. “It has been very nice to finally speak with you, Mino.”  
  
The sun is breaking over the rooftops of the city, sunlight reflecting off the fresh snow.  
  
“I do hope, however, that I never meet you again.”  
  
Mino knew, at the start of the night, that it was unlikely he would ever cross paths with Luhan again, and yet he still feels some regret. “Thank you, Luhan. I can’t begin to explain what this means to me.”  
  
Luhan reaches out and shakes his hand. “By the way, do you plan on sticking with the WWIC now that you have your truth?”  
  
Mino shakes he head. “There’s not much of a point now.”  
  
“What are you going to do then?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mino breathes, and for once his lungs feel full. “But I’ll figure it out.”  
  
Luhan smiles. “I’m sure you will.” Then, straightening his shoulders, “Goodbye Mino. Best of luck to you.”  
  
They part, each heading down the sidewalk in opposite directions. Mino is almost to the end of the block before he turns around, watching as Luhan gives him one last wave before getting into an awaiting taxi. Mino continues to stand there until the taxi rounds the corner and disappears from his sight.  
  
On the walk home, he feels lighter, somehow, freer. He finally has a sense of closure, the end to his quest to find out what had happened to Minseok. And as he watches the sun rise over the city, giving life to a new day ripe with possibilities, Mino thinks about his brother—of his smiles, of his joy, and of his bravery.  
  
He hopes he can be just as brave.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Mino ends up staying with the WWIC for two more months. When he’s not clocking in to his nine-to-five job monitoring mutant activity in the city, Mino quietly gathers information to build his case. He smiles politely to his colleagues and his superiors, wears a pressed suit Monday through Friday, and always shows up five minutes early to every meeting. He doesn’t feel guilt, not even a shred of remorse, because the deeper he digs, the more he discovers about the widespread repression and murder of countless mutants by the WWIC and their shameless schemes to cover their tracks.  
  
He may be but one human, one sickly person who doesn’t have any power—super or otherwise—but Mino refuses to keep silent.  
  
Mino refuses to stay afraid.  
  
So he keeps his head down, wills himself to have patience— _to be brave_ —and play nice with his peers… all of this while simultaneously plotting their downfall.  
  
One Sunday morning, he settles onto his couch in his tiny new apartment in a different country, and opens up the newspaper to the front page. There, he reads the headline article on the shocking WWIC leak that is taking the world by storm—every news channel has hourly updates, social media accounts buzz with heated debates, and both human and mutant alike are talking about the report, submitted by an anonymous source, that contained several hundreds of documents outlining the abuse of power and its treatment of both mutants and the humans that sympathized with them. Mino skips to the part of the article that brings to life the EXO organization, and in particular, the dealings of one individual,  _Xiumin_ , who strove to create a world of equality.  
  
Mino drinks his coffee, a small smile on his face. He thinks Minseok would have been proud of him.  
  
But most of all, Mino thinks that for the first time in years, he can breathe without regret.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Three months after he quit his job at the WWIC, and two days after the publication of the WWIC leak, Mino finds a letter in his mailbox. There’s no return address on the envelope, but across he back flap is the unmistakable symbol he knows all too well.

  
A hexagon.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted at my [livejournal](http://clio323.livejournal.com/27888.html).


End file.
